


As it Was

by heli0s



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, F/M, Family Feels, Heartbreak, Post-Endgame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-10-21 14:36:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20695169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heli0s/pseuds/heli0s
Summary: Sam warned him when he arrived at the compound, returned to the timeline he ran from: It’s different now, she doesn’t do the superhero thing anymore, she’s got another life now, but he wouldn’t listen. He can’t. He must hope that some things are the same, that your love is the same.





	1. As it Was

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of 3, told from Steve's perspective.

_There is a roadway_.

The tires crunch over rock and gravel as Steve drives down the familiar path, flanked by overgrown grass and wildflowers in full bloom. Insects flutter around the petals, sunlight glistening on the waxy blades of green. He can smell it, even inside the car, ignited in his nose and blazing into his chest.

The smell of summer. The crushed earth beneath muddied boots.

He can taste the watermelon sugar, tingling on the sweet tongue encased in an even sweeter mouth.

Your bright pink lips wet with cold bites of fruit. He loved the way you would collect the smooth seeds and pinch them between your teeth. He loved the way you’d spit them into his face—silly with joy under the shade of a tree. _Too slow, baby! _

He can hear your laughter, in the dead air-conditioned chamber of one of many compound cars. If he could bottle it up into a music box and wind it up just to hear now, he would.

He would.

Steve’s heart twists tighter as the road continues its winding way deeper through the thicket of verdant trees. Sunlight pours through in golden rays, slipping past the cracks of parted leaves. A pathway the two of you walked many times over, hand-in-hand.

There’s a separation of the blades to the left, a well-worn spot leading into an open space where you would spread the picnic blanket, stuff him full of cold cut sandwiches and fruit pie. Iced lemonade, tart. Then, under the light of the sun, or moon, or any time or season in-between, you would wrap yourself over him, love him so sweetly he could weep now.

But then is not now.

For the past three years of your time, _then_ had been now.

But now that he’s back... _now_ is something else.

His phone rings, echoing through the car with its shrill tittering. Sam’s number appears, as it has been every five minutes for the past two hours of his journey. Sam calling. Sam leaving messages. Sam texting.

_Don’t, cap. Don’t go there. It’s changed, Cap. Things have changed. Trust me, man. It’s better if you don’t go._

But he has to. He has to change your mind. Make you forgive him because he loves you so much even if he has made a mistake. Make it all go back to as it was.

Back _then_, on the platform, he had been sure. In the sepia-colored minutes of his wayward past, he had been sure. That unreachable possibility had become so nearly tangible he could grab it in his hands. He was inches from her—from Peggy, and it took him decades away from you.

So, he leapt. He followed his foolish boyish heart to its dream. He told you the night before under the awning in front of the cabin, windchimes striking in the draft, fireflies all around. He’s never been a part of this world, not truly. He has to go back to where he belongs.

_With Peggy, you mean?_

You had cried and cried, wrapped your arms around your middle, refused to say anything else, and he had never seen you so shattered. But he had been sure.

And then, only four weeks into the returned years of Steve Rogers, suddenly, like a cold hand tugging him awake, the dream slipped.

He wasn’t sure after all.

Sam calls again, but Steve is obstinate. The cabin peeks over the hill, sunken in the distance of the field just as he remembered—the little cobblestoned well in the field, string lights around the perimeter, mailbox at the edge of the road, rainbow pinwheels you’d planted in the ground because they’re_ cute, Steve._

Hanging from the thick branch of the oak tree you have hung a tire swing-- endearing, and so like you. Next to it is a picnic table where a single copper watering can sits in the middle, bunches of wildflowers sticking out. A tangle of yellow and green. Like your arms wrapped around his waist, linked fingers squeezing him tightly, playfully, pretending you could crush him.

_Gonna kill you! Crack ya ribs! _

He would grunt dramatically behind a muffled chuckle, _Yes, baby. I’ve died! You’re so—ugh! Strong! B-Bucky! Avenge me!_

Bucky would roll his eyes with a smirk, _You two are nauseating._

You would stick your tongue out, turn it back around to Steve and lick a stripe from his throat to his chin. He would shudder all over, watch your pretty pink mouth curl into a grin, and _growl_. Steven Grant Rogers, growled, and Bucky would throw his hands up and abscond before his eyes might see Captain America do something indecent.

He didn’t have that with Peggy. He didn’t have the twinkling of your mischievous eyes, the flame of your passion. He only had the bitter chill of your absence and the stark realization that a first love and a true love are two different things.

Sam warned him when he arrived at the compound: _It’s different now_, _she doesn’t do the superhero thing anymore, she’s got another life now, _but he wouldn’t listen. He can’t. He must hope that some things are the same, that your love is the same.

_How long would you wait for me?_

He pulls the car into the patch of trodden grass he once parked in, steps out, and closes the door quietly. There’s a clattering inside before the wooden door creaks open— as it always has, even after he loosened and tightened all its hinges— it still creaks, same as ever.

_Your shape in the doorway._

One leg at a time, you emerge.

A weightless gauze dress hangs from your frame as you linger in the opening, back turned to him. In one hand is a small twine basket lined with gingham fabric. A pair of garden shears sit nestled inside. He remembers this— the walks to clip flowers and pick berries. You would put the berries in the pies, place the blossoms and leaves in mason jars all over the countertops until it looked wild in the house, too.

Your hair is longer, he smiles as he continues to watch, gazing at the loose braid you’ve fashioned your locks into. You used to complain about how fast it would grow, annoyed at how the buzzed side with the sharp chevron pattern needed to be maintained closely.

He supposes you’ve grown tired of the upkeep. You’ve let it grow out now.

The braid is new. The dress is new. But the way you lean into the house, so relaxed and carefree, _that_ is familiar.

Steve is unsure how to approach. He doesn’t want to startle you, even though his very presence is startling. He knows your capabilities, and with those razor-sharp shears next to your elbow he wouldn’t try it. No, you couldn’t crush his ribs with your arms, but you could slice him gullet to belly in a second.

He opens his mouth to call your name, but the door creaks louder as you lean down and push it further back into the house, urging faintly. You turn, duck your torso behind the wall, leaving a deliberate space by your legs.

And then he sees it. The _change _Sam warned him about. The _life_.

His heart drops. And trembles. And feels like it could burst entirely.

Two tiny bare feet tap forward, kicking with each step. A happy, shrill, cry leaps into the air as the boy clumsily jumps one foot at a time, and lands past your dress.

The _child._

“Wait for me, baby,” you call, still tucked halfway inside, “Wait for mama.”

“Mama!” He sputters and giggles, “Mama!” _Mama._

God. The boy is beautiful. He is barefoot and his face is eclipsed by a canvas bucket hat, shielding the plump, pale skin of him from the summer sun. Even if Steve can’t see his face yet, he knows, because of you, any child would be perfect. A cherub. A little cherub that could have been his.

“I’m coming, just… let me get my hat. And sunscreen for you. Ah, mama has been _so_ bad with that sunscreen.” There is more fumbling as you drop the basket on your arm into the dark house and briefly slip inside.

The boy stops at the step leading down, pondering his own confidence to tread forward. He sits, instead, letting his bottom save any potential fall before he scoots his legs over. After braving the first step, he looks up. He blinks slowly, and Steve catches sight of his enormous blue eyes, and long lashes, button nose, rosy red cheeks, slightly open mouth slack with surprise and a little bit of wonder.

“Mama.” He says, before tilting his head, “Mama, Mama. Body! Body! Some here.”

“Someone’s here?”

You quickly emerge, hand fisting a wide-brimmed straw hat, arm reaching forward to scoop your child up and away. He is plopped firmly on your jutting left hip before you tear the hat off your head, stare into the tall and broad figure of a man you have known too well. A surprised breath tears itself from your throat.

“Steve?”

His mouth jerks into a careful smile. Nothing he had practiced during the car ride feels right in this moment; all his words have been tossed into the yard by the hands of a three-year-old boy. The hat drops from your hand, quietly slides on the dusty wooden patio, speckles of it catching light and blowing away in the easy wind. You blink, eyes shifting side to side as if questioning your reality.

“Steve?”

His name slips off your tongue so sweetly and he can’t help but close his eyes to memorize you again. That voice, his name, the years have passed, and he hasn’t forgotten it. He is so goddamn sorry to have left it at all.

From the first time you called it, to the first time you whispered it, promised your allegiance to it, to the first time you sobbed it, following him into the unknown and the darkness for five years. No matter how black the night, he had you.

_Your love was unmoved_.

“Sweetheart,” He pleas, stepping forward with a shaky outstretched hand.

You stand frozen like a statue, everything stiff and still except for the fluttering of your creamy dress and the boy on your hip, babbling freely. His little fingers and their little fingernails prod and poke at your neck, grabbing onto the strands that frame your face—too short to stay in the braid.

God. You’re beautiful. You glow, softened by the years without fighting and training, tanned by the sunlight, kissed by the breeze and rain and butterfly wings, and everything else but him.

“Mama, mama. Want down, down!”

The boy squeezes and releases his soft fists, reaching out and kicking your back with his foot. He begins to grunt and whine, head thrown behind and lolling over at Steve. “Down!”

“Hey,” Steve smiles, taking a finger to caress the boy’s palm, calming his motions, “What’s your name?”

You slowly turn to look at your child, eyes beginning to focus on him, as if suddenly remembering his weight perched on your side. A quick breath is sucked into your lungs as he blinks and grins, laughing. “Jams! This is mama an’ this is Jams.”

“J-James.” You correct with a broken, wet, laugh, “H-he’s.. his name—it’s _James_.”

Steve watches him continue to thrash against your side out of joy, now, as if being held by you is a game in itself. He brings your hair to his mouth, blubbering into it, giggling when it tickles his face. He taps on your collar with a finger, gnaws impishly on your shoulder until a line of drool trickles down. Then, he laughs again, and pushes his cheeks into it, hugging your bicep tightly.

The boy—the _angel_—_James_. Steve feels himself clench up with the new knowledge. His name is _James_.

“James?” There is betrayal in the way he questions it. Betrayal in his voice, as much as he tries to steel it, a tiny crack creeps through the single syllable. And there is betrayal in his tone, as if he is branding the rupture of his trust onto you.

You pull the boy close to your body, maneuvering until you’re holding him with both arms, one slanted over his back, the other under his bottom. He sighs and leans his head onto your shoulder, makes soft noises of contentment. “Mama… walk? Go for a walk, mama.”

Between your overcast eyes and Steve’s inspecting blue ones, James is tucked like a pebble in a cobblestone wall, desperately holding back the torrent from both sides. You grip him unwaveringly, shush him now for the time being.

“Is he—Bucky? He’s Bucky’s?”

Steve inspects the front yard, the blindingly hopeful curtain finally lifting from his eyes—there are three seats on the porch, three flowers painted on the mailbox, three little stumps further away surrounding an extinguished fire.

A home—his home, his place, now filled in with the bulk of someone else. And not just anyone else, he thinks bitterly, but Bucky. His best friend, now his old lover’s new lover. It spins him out of control.

Your face scrunches up with disdain, mouth twisting into a scowl he’s known rarely, but still—he knows it.

“Yes, Steve.” You spit, nostrils flaring as your nose quickly turns pink with anger, “He’s named after his father. He’s named after his _real_ father.”

Steve frowns, broken-hearted, apologetic, confused. Your eyes have welled up with unshed tears, your lips pinched tightly together, as if holding back your words will keep the tears at bay, too. He doesn’t know what you mean as he stares vacantly at your protective stance.

But then he sees it.

He sees it when James grunts, bored now of a conversation that is years beyond his interest and comprehension. He beats his fists on your chest and leans back in agony.

His hat tumbles from his crown. Down, down, it falls noiselessly and when Steve looks back up to where his perfect little head is—returned to your collar, he sees brilliant flaxen curls, catching sunbeams.

Blindingly gold—almost white.

James twists his little body around and stares at Steve with some mysterious indulgence now that they are both wholly revealed to each other.

“He was there for me, you know.” You whisper, heavy teardrops running down to your chin, pooling until they barely hang on. “He was there the entire time. Nine whole agonizing months, knowing that I was growing something that was yours. I had nobody but Bucky.”

You press your lips to James’ head, inhaling the sweet scent of his skin, “I was out of my mind with grief. Th-thought, I couldn’t—I couldn’t have it. Couldn’t have a baby that was _yours_—you’d left me. You left what we had for something that was barely a dream, Steve.”

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know—I didn’t.”

“Bucky was there.” You continue, ignoring Steve’s confession. He bites his tongue, hopes it draws blood, hopes in secret you might take his very life from him. He can’t stand to be alive anymore, staring now at two people he left behind.

“Bucky was there, and he loved me through it. And when this little… when this sweet boy—” you press your eyes to his forehead, “When this boy came, we held each other and wept.”

A little laugh is muffled in James’ hair.

“So, yeah. He’s named after his real father, not his biological one.”

James leans his face towards yours, places his palms onto your cheek and pats the wetness away, “Mama. No more rain, mama. Mama, sunny outside.”

You burst apart, crumbling into tears against his little palm, pressing kisses to his fingertips, and Steve crumbles too. The boy, the precious boy, who is both his and not his, turns and looks at him earnestly. You whisper to him, kiss him on the cheek, _Mama’s okay, baby. Mama’s got you with her now. Sunshine boy._

And then you turn your eyes to him. Those once doting eyes he always found gazing longingly, even after he was yours. Now they cut him, sharp and cold, holding him in their deep, dark light.

“You need to leave, before he comes home.” You whisper over the sound of insect wings and birds in the distance. The trees rustle and sway, as if egging your words on.

_Home_. Your home is with Bucky. Not Steve, not anymore.

“He’ll want to see you, but not like this.”

He wouldn’t even know what to say to Bucky. He wouldn’t know what to expect to hear, either. You and Bucky, and his son—your son, Steve’s son, Bucky’s son. All strung up together in a terrible web, waiting for the spider.

Somehow, he feels like the spider.

“Steve,” you call, and for a second, he hears it lovingly. Like how you might have called his name in front of the fireplace, nestled in his arms, snow settling in sheets outside. _Steve_, _I love you._

“Steve.” It’s firm again, hard and cutting, ice chips crunched through your teeth, “When you left, you left Bucky, too. In your absence, we found each other. You didn’t just break me, Steve; you broke _him_. And you need to go, because I won’t let you do that to him again.”

You don’t have to say it, but he can parse it from your clenched jaw and the way you aim your words at him. You love Bucky.

The trajectory of the truth burns straight through his guts. It churns and twists and drugs his entire being until it leaves every last cell numb.

Once upon a time, you loved him, too.

But that was before he knew the darkness, before he knew the possibility and lost himself in the _what if_, the _then_, burning away the _now_ and the love he already had.

You set James down softly in the dirt after landing soft kisses to his cheeks, watch his toes flex and grip the grass. He places the hat back over his head, lopsided, but on, regardless. He bounces on his feet, bending his knees and getting a feel for the ground beneath him. The silly ritual completes when he pads away, chasing a hovering dragonfly. Every few seconds, he looks back and laughs.

Steve’s heart cracks open with every inch of the boy’s smile.

The two of you stand for what seems like an eternity, trying to find something to end it on. He can’t do anything more than laugh resentfully, because if he doesn’t, he’ll cry, and he’ll never stop. It comes out as two clipped scoffs before he splinters anyway.

So, he nods, accepts the defeat he’s given himself and lets the tears trickle down his face to match you. Blinking the sea from your eyes, you sniffle loudly and turn, splitting the grass with your feet to follow the trail James has made into the field.

Pulling out of the driveway, Steve watches you next to your son, his son, Bucky’s son, that beautiful boy, blue-eyed like both of them. You bend and lift him, toss him gently, nuzzle him and smile before you take him down into the grass and continue the walk away from the house. He plucks flowers and raises them up and you let him tuck them inelegantly into your braid, still lovely.

Steve closes his eyes one last time to sear the image into his mind. He interjects himself into the scene, walking hand-in-hand down that habitual path. He imagines James on his hip, stares into the phantom face of that boy of his, your laughter ringing next to him like the wind. He laughs and laughs, and cries and cries. And then, he drives until the house is gone from the rearview mirror.

No, it will never be as it was again.

The dream, honeyed, sweet, as beautiful as it may be, it would only be half as beautiful as the truth could have been. Half as beautiful as the boy. Half as beautiful as you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was very obviously inspired by Hozier's "As it Was", however, it was meant to be all fluff and then went totally sideways because I am still bitter about Endgame and how Bucky was just left there. Steve, you meatball.
> 
> Thinking about a small part two-- domestic stuff, exploring the healing process with Bucko. We'll SEE.... :^)


	2. His Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You haven't always been Bucky's girl.

It’s always relief that washes over him first when he pulls into the road, seeing the house the same as when he left. The pinwheels, the mailbox, the swing you shove him into even though you know he doesn’t fit.

His playful girl with a stubborn streak.

It’s been two weeks without his girl and his home. He’s been on longer missions, but two weeks is two weeks too long, just as they all are.

The second emotion he feels is anticipation. Excitement for the embrace he’ll give and receive. The kisses, the fingers through his hair, the knowledge that you will be rushing downstairs and into his arms.

Sundown arrives late in the evening when summertime’s daylight spans nearly fifteen hours in the heat of June. The meadow buzzes alive in the breeze, ruffling winged insects through the tufts of wild grass and blown dandelions. His boots tread through the path, startling the idyllic soil beneath them.

There are no footsteps to herald his return, today; Bucky comes home to your back in front of the kitchen window. The door creaks open as he steps in, duffel bag in tow. He always imagines he would surprise you after these long trips, but that damn door and its loud hinges will never allow him the chance.

“Darlin’?” He calls, pushing it shut gently with his foot, “You alright?”

You turn, chin tucked into the hollow space of your collarbone and shoulder. The loosened braid of your hair sways over your spine, saffron half-wilted blossoms of Black-Eyed Susans gazing at him sadly.

The setting sun scatters against the window, streams through those sheer embroidered curtains you love so much, even though he says _baby, they don’t do anything_. His stubborn girl scoffs and fluffs then anyway.

He’s glad for those useless curtains now as the light illuminates your side profile. The corona of your shape from across the house makes him sigh in wonder.

His girl, wrapped in floating cream gauze. His girl, standing by the sink with oranges. His girl, soft and beautiful and bright, waiting for him.

You haven’t always been soft.

You haven’t always been his girl.

He knows something is wrong when you remain immobile, clutching the edge of the counter, abandoned cup of hand-squeezed juice and the carcasses of two halves next to the reamer.

“Honey? I’m coming over to you. Stay right there.”

You collapse in his arms before he gets the chance to lock them around. You smell crisp and clean, just a little briny with sweat from time spent outside. The jars on the counter and table are full again, this time accented with plucked sprigs of lavender and a small cattail from the pond.

“Oh, Buck,” You press your face into his shoulder, scrubbing your brow on the rough fabric of his jacket, “I love you.”

“Love you too.” He pauses, fingers prodding lightly over your body, searching for some physical aspect that might explain your ailment. Nothing. You hold tighter to him, letting your weight press down, and he supports you easily, nose rubbing the exposed skin of your neck.

“Where’s our little guy?”

“He’s sleeping. He chased ducks and then they chased him. Planted completely in mud. Bath time was… exhausting.”

Both of you chuckle at that. Little James, that precious boy had a rowdy streak in him, always too eager to rile something up— sometimes even his mother.

The laughter subsides as he continues to rub your back, waiting patiently for the other shoe to drop. Your heartache seeps into him, dampens his eyes and mouth, licking its way into his belly.

This happens, sometimes, because it’s bound to. The grief comes and goes, and when it arrives hard and grim, he cradles you in his arms regardless of how much he wishes his love is enough to keep you happy.

Today seems to be one of those days.

And it’s because you haven’t always been his girl.

He used to worry himself to sleep, straining to see your outline in the deep darkness of the bedroom. The house, sheltered by tree and leaves, lies so far away from the city that on a moonless night, he felt lost in a sea of ink.

The house once belonged to someone else. His place in the bed, too. The impression of a body larger than him, grander than him, a body you loved more than him. It would cradle him in its unsympathetic crease, and he would lie awake, listen to your deep breaths, soothe your nightmare sobbing, call your name when you would stutter _S-S-Steve._

Steve. Steve. Steve.

The shadow that had hung over you both.

Steve was always _‘til the end of the line_, until he wasn’t.

He wasn’t for Bucky, and he wasn’t for you.

Bucky had come back into the world five years later, found you and Steve elbow deep in the trenches of alien bodies and death—watched a love that had bloomed so fully continue to thrive, and it gave him hope.

Hope for himself, hope for the next day. Until it just… wasn’t.

Steve left Bucky, and Steve left you.

The cabin that evening had been illuminated by a single campfire in the front yard. The smell of burning objects and scorched kindling coaxed him forward. In front of the blaze, you stood, hair fixed into a tight knot. That shaved side he always liked glowed orange and red diagonal lines.

You knew, of course, way before he even arrived. You were always the quickest of them— alert, perched, could give Clint’s arrows a run for his money.

_Hey._

He had never heard that gravel in your voice before.

In the flames were photographs, corners eaten away and twisted with heat until they turned black. Clothes, bedsheets, books, even the sketchbook— that old, leather-bound thing Steve always kept close to his chest. You had thrown them all in.

_Wanna roast some marshmallows? Let’s get fat on sugar and chocolate. The world is safe. _

A spark crackled in the fire the same time your voice did, but Bucky closed his eyes. Let you regain your composure because he knew you wouldn’t have wanted him to see you cry. Your voice was strained, full of resentment.

_Everyone’s gone back to where they should be._

He smiled, lopsided and broken.

_Not me._ _I’m here eatin’ marshmallows here with you._

And then, joylessly, you had pointed to the dwindling pile of Steve’s fossils strewn about.

_Throw some shit in. It feels good._

Your hand links itself inside of his as you tug him out of the kitchen and towards the living room couch. You place the glass into his palm, watch him drink the juice and kiss the corner of his mouth where a droplet remains. He loves it when you’re sweet, told you once it’s his favorite thing about you—that you can rot his teeth and hurt his stomach and he’ll still come back for seconds.

_Thirds. Fourths_. You scoffed, fixed on the anecdote of food, _your appetite will bankrupt us._

He agreed then, kept the joke running.

“What is it?” Bucky’s hand finds your jaw, lifts it gently until he can see your eyes crawling with veins and lined in red, puffed, swollen. Crying again. “What is it, hon?”

Since James, you’ve started crying a million times more than he ever thought a person could—when he gets a fever, you cry. When he falls, you cry. He thinks it’s ridiculous, that you—his girl who can stab a man better even than he can—that when James cries, _you_ cry. _Darling, he is two and he will cry because a leaf dropped._

But you haven’t cried like this in months, almost a year—not like _this_, not split open and prolonged.

Bucky heart swells with dread when he thinks about why your face is raw with rubbing. “Is it?”

“Yeah.” You mutter, “Steve… he’s back. Stopped by earlier.”

His tongue feels like lead, sinking into his throat to strangle him. He hadn’t heard Steve’s name from your mouth in almost a year. The world had turned and turned without Steve Rogers, and when it seemed like both of you might have finally let go of the ghost, he comes back.

Where does Bucky start?

His girl, burrowed into his chest, tucked away in his arms, hides her face now. His girl, will she still be his girl?

Because she hasn’t always been his girl.

It was only a few years ago that a new love sprung from the ashes of a dying one. And the corpse had lived a long life, full of memories that haunted you both. Bucky and Steve had quite a long life together, too.

He clutches tighter, rubs his arms up and down yours, squeezes like he is hoping you might just sink into his chest. Stay safe inside of him where the pain can’t find you anymore.

“Can we go to bed?” You sob suddenly, shaking in his hold, “Please let’s go to bed.”

He hated that bed for so long.

You used to lie in it for days at a time. He would come by and you would be upstairs in the loft on your side and staring out the window. _Hey, Buck_. The whole house smelled like earth and salt, as if you had flooded the wood with tears and it was still drying out.

_Have you eaten? Have you slept? Have you done anything?_

You only laughed dryly and burrowed deeper into the brand-new sheets, like everything else that used to be shared between two people. _Do what? Go where? Sleep to dream of him? Hard pass_.

Bucky had stomped downstairs, rummaged through the cabinets, found the half open bag of marshmallows from three weeks ago- stale and slightly stiff, and shoved handfuls of it into your mouth. _You said we’d get fat on sugar. You better fucking eat this_.

When both your cheeks were full and the sad tears turned into happy ones, he sat back with his arms crossed at the edge of the bed and huffed. And you’d spit the enormous, drenched, sticky pile out down your shirt and held your head in both your hands. _I’m so fucked, Bucky. I’m screwed. I’m fucking screwed._

He didn’t know what you meant, because he was grieving too, but that string of panicked statements rang a thought more desperate than any he could have. Bucky didn’t feel _fucked _without Steve. Bucky felt… discarded. He felt… abandoned, forgotten, small. But he didn’t feel _fucked_.

It took two more visits, two more weeks, and an extraordinarily rainy night before you told him the truth.

There was shattered glass against the wall and your body slumped down on the opposite side of the kitchen. There was wracked sobbing, fingernails digging into your scalp and shoulder until he peeled them away pricked in red. Two months had passed, and you were pregnant. _Did Steve know? Did you tell him? He would have stayed, if he knew._

Bucky had suddenly grown hopeful for a past that already passed. Steve would have stayed. Did the chance slip from you, to tell him? Did you know too late?

_I had just found out. But then he told me his news first and … fuck him. Fuck him for leaving. Why would I tell him? So he could stay for a clump of cells and not me? So he could love an obligation and pine for a ghost? Fuck him._

And then suddenly, the clawing resumed, and Bucky wrestled to keep your hands away from your body, wrapping his legs over yours, holding you tight until your squirming died. He pressed his chin to the top of your head, gripped your back to his chest, and you both rocked on the floor. _It’s gonna be okay. I got you. I’m here with you._

It rained the night you told him. It rained again when the boy arrived.

Nine months you carried him inside of you, hated him, hated his father, hated yourself.

Helen came to the cabin, because you couldn’t be bothered to leave. You were happy to die in labor, you had said with a grin. Bucky stood by her side, mouth set in a firm line and told you to _shut the fuck up_.

At that, you genuinely laughed so hard you had to cover your entire face with your hands and when you pulled them away, suddenly, Bucky thought that the glow some women get when they’re pregnant must have been twice as true for you.

The boy came with a clap of thunder.

Bucky had known carnage, but the birth was terrible and horrific and when you went pale with the loss, he swore that if you got what you wanted, he would die with you. Helen yelled at him to get the water, get the rags, and the bucket, and the needle. Wash the boy, wrap him, _hustle, Sergeant!_

The bundle thrust into his arms was softer than sand, wetter than water, crimson and sluiced with blood. Two blue eyes gleamed out of the swath of blanket and even though people say newborns are beautiful, he could only see a red and angry thing, tearing the life from you with the eyes of his old best friend.

Now his old best friend has returned for his old girl and his new baby boy.

And Bucky’s girl is still in his arms, pleading for him to let her rest.

“Okay, darlin’, let me clean up first. I’ll tuck you in.”

You grip his collar and tangle your hands in his hair, clambering to get into his lap. The skirt of your dress folds over all four entwined legs and you suddenly press your mouth to his in a blistering kiss.

“Let’s make a baby,” you sob distraughtly. “W-we… I-I want to make a baby with you, Bucky.”

He quiets your rambling, stills his own heartbreak for the sake of attending to yours, and returns your fever with softness.

“We’ve got one, hon’. He’s in bed.” He presses his forehead against yours and smiles, tries to make it look real so that you believe him, “Baby, we got a boy and he’s wonderful, even if he makes his mama chase him through mud.”

He loves that boy. He loves him like his own flesh and blood, and he’ll be damned if Steve thinks he can take him away.

Upstairs, a whine signals your attention, followed by a sound of choked crying before the wail of your son breaks loose. “C’mon,” Bucky urges.

He climbs slowly, waiting for you each step of the way. You linger, feet heavy along with your heart. By the time you make it through the doorway, Bucky already has James in his arms, rubbing his back, humming to him.

The boy fists Bucky’s hair, squeezing a handful in pulses, singing a tuneless song. “Daddy is home. Daddy, daddy. Sunnyshine outside.”

Bucky laughs, “James, it’s nighttime.” He kisses the top of James’ head anyway, “Can’t blame you, though, you’re too small to see out the window. We gotta teach you how to tell time.”

“Time to play?”

“No… time to go back to sleep.” Then, Bucky puts his head on top of James’ and pretends to snore loudly, the sound vibrating from his chest and into those golden locks. A shrill giggle escapes him and he pulls away just to come back and press his cheeks to his father’s face.

Bucky walks over to where you stand with your eyes pressed to the heel of your palms and tilts James up to your face. “Mama’s tired too, let’s all go to bed, yeah?”

Blessedly, the boy relents. He reaches over almost teetering out of Bucky’s arms and pulls on the thumb by your ear. “Night mama, love you.”

On the edge of the bed, the old imprint has been pressed out. Bucky takes off his shoes, stretches his back and motions for you to come next to him. He kisses your fingertips and brushes the hair from your face, combs out the wilted wildflowers and you lean into his touch.

It’s been silent since James fell asleep. He can hear crickets and cicadas outside the window, woodland creatures coming alive in the twilight.

He watches the way your lips bend and fold inside your mouth to keep yourself locked away.

Sometimes your love is hidden inside a puzzle his hands are too clumsy to place together. There are pieces missing, he thinks, but still, he tries. Sometimes you blissfully help him with the task and sometimes you’re away from the table.

Tonight, you’re far from him. Lost somewhere in the memory and possibility of two hands many times more delicate than his.

_Steve. Steve. Steve._

And he wonders if your heart will ever beat his name like that old rhythm it had known so well.

Your weight dips the mattress, and you lean your head onto his shoulder. “I love you.”

He hears it, but he never really hears it.

Not in the way it used to leave your tongue. _Stevie, I love you. You giant idiot! You meatball, Steve!_ Full of ringing laughter right before you would crush your mouth to his, tug him by the collar into the dark of Cap’s compound bedroom.

The only flames Bucky knew were shared in moments of desperation, when the pain was too much and the fire was necessary.

James tucked into his crib, you crumpled on the floor. Bucky would sit by your side night after night, as he had been doing for the last thirteen months. It was dark, then, not even illuminated by a moonbeam.

You held on to his shirt, pushed him down, pressed both your hands to his neck and whispered. _Thank you. Thank you. I love you. I love you._

The first kiss shared was wet and salty, tears slipping into the space between two open mouths. Teeth clicked, nails scratched, and you wouldn’t even let him pull away enough to ask if you were sure about it.

He knew you were beautiful. Seen it for years and years. But when you slipped off the shirt from your shoulders, the moon seemed to shine right out from your skin.

He worried himself to sleep next to you that night.

“What do you want to do?” He asks now, pushing his fear away, “I’m here for you, whatever you want. Whatever is best.”

Your chin jabs his shoulder, “_You_ are best. You are best for me, and James, and Bucky—d--” Tears roll down your cheeks, plop big, wet, crystal balls onto his arm. “Don’t you dare.”

For the second time that night, you crawl into his lap, straddle his waist, and his breath is punched out of his lungs in awe of your beauty. “I love you, idiot. Don’t ever say that to me again.”

“Alright, sweetheart,” he mumbles against your mouth, “I won’t.”

The flame burns tonight. You undress him with deft fingers, yanking his clothes, hissing when he pulls away to peel the shirt off— as if not touching him pains you. The dress stays on your waist, rucked up, its straps tugged down and the top pulled open to expose your chest—soft, heaving with love and agony.

_Bucky. Bucky. I love you. I love you. I love you so much._

Desperate, again.

He’s not sure if you’re convincing him or yourself.

You tug his hair, grip his chest and back, kiss him until his head spins. The bed creaks softly, as if it doesn’t want to interrupt the sounds that your bodies create together.

He makes love to you, and even though he is bone tired from the mission and the drive, he doesn’t feel it until you tremble in his arms and slump against his chest. He doesn’t attend to himself until you’re underneath the covers, breathing deeply.

Then, Bucky lies down too, runs his hand through his hair and sobs into that inky night.

“Bucky?”

His heart stops beating in his chest. He’s frozen and caught.

You turn on your side, hand finding his damp cheek with some difficulty in the dark. “Baby,” you sigh, “Oh, Bucky...” A loud sniffle, a choke, and then your nose rubs against his. Your lips pat his tears away, kitten licks over the line of his sharp jaw.

“You’ve always been so good to me, baby. Always so good.”

He’s heard those words before from your lips, after the boy came with the rain. Your eyes had fluttered and closed as Helen leaned against the doorframe, tearing off her gloves.

_She’s okay, Sergeant. She’s just resting. You should, too. _

He refused her, watched the baby in the makeshift bassinet as Helen unpacked her overnight bag in the guest room. He wiped your forehead with a damp towel, listened to the rain crash against the window, and sat down in the chair.

The room was a closed chamber trapping in the smell of wet pennies and sweat. He tugged the windowpane open and placed towels on the floor to catch the downpour. You woke with a yelp, jerked awake by thunder and a streak of lightning. It was only for a second, but Bucky held onto your hand, let you slip back to sleep.

Helen roused you both in the morning, let you hold the baby, taught you how to turn him on his stomach, how to settle him down, how to nurse. Bucky had stood up, ready to dismiss himself before he caught your wide eyes, terrified of the life in your arms.

He stayed as Helen guided your hand to massage the boy’s cheek. Little fists clenched the slipped-off hem of your shirt, his mouth opened, and you cried when he latched on.

The rain had subsided in the late hours of the night and the sun was rising high, streaming luminously into the loft. Helen moved to draw the curtains and give you some reprieve from the rays, but Bucky stopped her; you needed the sun and its warmth.

She nodded and agreed, and he slowly went to the bed and kneeled, looking up into your red eyes soaking your face.

_Hey_. He had smiled, wiping the trickling streams, _Look_. He nodded to the illuminated window, bent finger stroking the boy wrapped in cloth. _No more rain, darlin’, it’s sunny out._

Outside was gold. Like the boy’s head. And you thought, like Bucky’s heart.

_You’re so good to me. _You cried, even though he quietly asked you to stop, because if you didn’t, he would start, too. _You’ve always been so good to me._

Nine agonizing months and Bucky Barnes had been your rock and center and lighthouse in the dark.

_Bucky, I love you._

It was a sunny morning when he wept and held his little family in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the feedback and love! As it Was will be a 3 part series. See you next time for the sweet (happy?) and salty (my IRL tears) end!


	3. True

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter of As It Was, told from your perspective.

You haven’t always been soft.

It used to be hard and fast, scorched and salted earth, with your troublesome heart throwing you headfirst into every fight. In the past, your recklessness was a running joke with the team after they lost you in Alaska and upon the third hour of searching, Steve and Bucky came upon a burning semi with you standing nearby, shuddering in the polar night.

They had rushed forward, grabbed the back of your suit and tore you from the truck before it could explode. In-between clipped and frozen breaths, you screamed, _It’s dark as shit! And cold! I had to set that thing on fire! You found me, didn’t you?!_

_Did you have to?_ Bucky rolled his eyes as the vehicle burst apart, blazing shrapnel whizzing through the black, _or did you want to?_

Steve snickered, pulled you in for a sloppy kiss. _Baby, you’re a mess._

It used to be a bruising kind of love, raw and open, and all for Steve. He saw and knew every facet of you from every angle, even the ones you hid away. You let him dig inside of your rib cage, wrap himself around your heart, and sleep in your blood until you couldn’t untangle which part was you and which part was him.

The house built together had been woven by two. There was no doubt for anyone who entered that you and Steve Rogers lived there.

Six years with him molded the sharpness into a blunt edge. Your incisors dulled, your words candied, your very presence became less incendiary. There was a reason to think first and stab later; there was a man and a home and a life ahead.

Until there wasn’t.

Until the test came back positive and the joyful tears in your eyes were gulped down with the news and turned into fire and salt again.

The world went to sleep without Steve Rogers while you stayed awake, watching his belongings burn. Campfire marshmallows scorched welts into your tongue. Seven of them sank like stones into your stomach until you threw up into the grass and Bucky took the bag inside. When he returned, you were crouched down low with your arms wrapped around your legs, peeling skin out from your mouth. _I loved him, you know? Really loved him._

Bucky leaned over to match your form, sitting down on a patch of grass, letting the heat roll over his face. Smoke billowed up into the night, puffs of it falling over two heads. He fanned it away from you with one hand, other coming to squeeze your shoulder in understanding. _Yeah, I know._

The pain had grown inside of you more each day. Your body was numb with grief, brain entirely collapsed, stiff with the terror that every passing second only made the problem worse.

So, you let it be and stayed in bed until your muscles softened like your heart once had. Everything could slip away in a matter of weeks and then _it _would be gone, too.

The house was dusty and barren when Bucky arrived on a Friday. The world outside had been returned to all its glory and instead of thriving bright with summer, it poured and dragged in a trail of rainwater all the way up to the loft.

_Door was unlocked. You okay?_

He spoke to your back carefully. You could hear the worry because it had been weeks and he hadn’t been able to reach you after you threw your phone into the woods where it shattered against a tree. The last image on the background before it cracked to its death had been Steve’s sleeping face.

_Have you eaten? Have you slept? Have you done anything?_

Even with his prosthetic arm he could feel how gaunt you had become, and his concern was beginning to tear holes inside of you. You knew, too, Bucky Barnes lost someone he loved. But Bucky wasn’t hating himself for loving Steve.

Bucky wasn’t growing a part of Steve inside of him.

It was your secret to carry and lie with and take to your early grave.

You weren’t soft after he left.

You cleaned out the house in a stupor, finding the remnants of him not taken by the fire and tore them apart with your bony hands. His favorite mugs burst apart against the kitchen backsplash. His mismatched lost socks under the couch were flung into the trash in where the rest of his former love lied.

You had shattered another thing when Bucky came back, bag of groceries in hand like he’d been doing for the past two weeks. He flung the umbrella against the door, rushed over and plucked splinters from your feet and palms.

_This isn’t like you. Stop it, gimme your hands. Fuck! Your hands!_

You pulled away, smeared the blood on the floor, and laughed. _Not like me? Which version of me? Before Steve? After Steve? Or now, without Steve?_

Then you fisted your hair and broke down on that glass-scattered floor. _I guess I’ll never really be without him, huh? Goddamn it. I’m so fucked._

He didn’t understand, then, so you took his hand in your sticky ones and pressed it to your belly where the slightest of swelling was beginning to form.

And Bucky Barnes, who had been grieving the same man, gasped and choked. He sputtered wilted consonants, steeled his breath, pulled you tightly into his embrace and cried, too.

You sat boneless against his chest, head leaned back to rest your skull on his shoulder. Tears streamed out of your eyes and plunked into his shirt as the two of you rocked on the floor like two frightened children in a minefield. That night, you felt the edges that had been resharpened by the whetstone of Steve’s departure melt in the warmth of Bucky’s arms.

He’s awake before you in the morning, breakfast sizzling downstairs as James plods about, watching him. He is always first to rise, alert in the light and tasking himself with preparing for the day.

The night before had dragged on with your head on his chest, thumb stroking his shoulder until you both succumbed to the dark, heavy-hearted about the future.

It remained unspoken for now, but Steve’s return wouldn’t be ignored— it couldn’t be. Bucky would want to see him and inevitably, he would have to be a part of your boy’s life; there would be no way to deny their similarities once he got older.

You had been so upset when the changes began to show— his clear blue eyes turned greener, his blonde never browning. The shape of his face by the second month resembled so little like your own you might not have believed that he was yours if you hadn’t given birth to him yourself.

_At least he doesn’t look like a potato anymore. Closer to a yam, now_. Bucky had grinned, and you punched him in the arm for stealing away your moment of self-pity.

James giggles when you descend the steps. He’s dressed and holding onto the handle of his sippy cup, hopping over to the stairs and grabs your finger. “Mor-nin’ mama! Brek-fist-time!” You smile at his sloshed words and pick him up, indulging his request to be held.

Underneath Bucky’s eyes are pale purple bags, sallow from fatigue. It wasn’t fair last night, to keep him up, to be so selfish with your emotions that you overlooked his need to rest. You knew Steve’s return hurt him, too.

Bucky, your lighthouse in the dark, illuminating a blaze for you, has now become melancholy like the sea itself. He’s quiet throughout the morning, lost in thought, constantly tucking his hair behind his ear, chewing on his lip and avoiding your gaze. You allow him the distance, but show him your presence, too, guiding him back to you with gentle strokes of your finger on his knee, tentative smiles across the table.

You can only hope he finds the breadcrumbs before the wolves in his heart do.

After breakfast, you rub James down with sunscreen and head out for a walk before the sun hangs too high and the air becomes too sweltering. Bucky unhooks the wicker basket from your arm and leisurely steps are taken behind the boy’s awkward gait. You link your fingers through his, pull him closer to your side until your shoulders rub together and he trips with a laugh.

There he is, you think, your sweet man.

“Look at his hand.” Bucky whispers into your ear after a while of pattering feet and soft crunching—weeds smashed beneath arches and heels. You hum and squint ahead and finally see the tight fist with a piece of French toast peeking through. The two of you pretend to be oblivious when James ducks behind a patch of tall grass and takes a bite.

“Fuck, I love him so much.” Bucky sighs.

Your heart swells suddenly, electrified by the way Bucky shakes his head, chin to his chest in a moment of happiness. Since yesterday morning you’ve been stretched thin with overflowing emotion and you are teetering on the edge of another breakdown watching your man do nothing but smile.

The light of him, the gravity of him, his entire being shines and dissolves you into the summer air.

It’s been two years and the sight of him still takes your breath away. He could be doing nothing but sitting and it would make your entire body hum and ache. You love him. You love him so much and it hurts to wonder if he really understands.

You haven’t always been soft.

You haven’t always been his girl.

But you are now.

And he doesn’t believe it.

Bucky calls Steve in the afternoon while you play with James. You distract yourself with washable markers and acrylic, dried pasta and macaroni necklaces, kinetic sand and sock puppets and the brilliant sound of his laughter. You chase him and roll on your back, lifting him up on your hands and feet, sway side to side as he shrieks in delight.

When the conversation is finished, Bucky quietly enters the room and pulls towels and new clothes from the dresser. The two of you work in unison to bathe your boy and put him down for a nap, turning on his overhead mobile and tucking his favorite bear next to his arm. Then, you shower too, staring at each other under the spray.

Steve is coming. Steve is on his way. Steve will be here in a couple of hours.

“Is this okay?” Bucky asks quietly, fingers trailing through your hair.

“Yeah. I think it has to be.”

“No, I meant the amount of conditioner. I never really know how much; it’s always the 2-in-1 for me.”

You spin around and punch his arm with a grin, “Idiot.”

He returns your expression wryly before he steps closer and closer until he’s looking down into your pupils. It’s another moment when you feel reduced by his beauty, so small and in awe of his existence. Choked sobs spill from your mouth and tears from your eyes until it melts into the spray of the shower and you’re pressed against him, arms tight around his waist.

“What?” He rubs your spine, keeps lathering and washing even in this moment.

“Jesus, you’re still—with the soap—fuck, why are you so _good_?”

“Am I?” He ponders, and you’re not sure if he’s serious. You’re not sure if you should punch him again or kiss him to make him understand. His fingers slow as the water continues to drip down your back. “I don’t know sometimes. Haven’t always been.”

You decide firmly on both, drawing a little yelp and a sputter that you smother with your mouth. With a furrow of your brow and the beginnings of a moment lost back in time, you whisper, “Me neither.”

_What do I do? What do I do? Bucky, Bucky, what do I do?_

He had started crying as soon as he woke up and you read somewhere that their vocal cords could become permanently damaged and you were crying your _own_ eyes out at this tiny little _thing_ who was keeping you permanently awake.

The first few months passed smoothly enough—who knew infants slept nearly twenty hours a day and mostly just shit themselves? But then the third month saw an increasing pattern of repeated shrieking and wailing, little coughs and fevers, and you thought you could drop dead any second. You were at your wit’s end with him—the baby boy you hadn’t even named yet.

_Just hold on, I’m almost there._

_I swear to God it’s going to kill me, Buck. Or I’m going to kill it. I don’t know which one yet._

That stupid door screeched open—another sound digging its way into the marrow of your bones that you wanted to never hear again tacked next to the _snk-snk-hck-hck_ of infant wailing. Bucky rushed in, hair pulled back into a soft bun and stood over the crib, watching you curled up on the floor with your palms over your ears.

_Jesus, you moved the crib downstairs again. Just… pick him up. _

You only coiled harder into yourself. _Why? So, it can be closer to my ears?_

_Not it. He’s a – a boy, a baby._

Three months of Bucky’s exasperation and your utter desolation had passed. He was essentially living in the guest room at that time, constantly going up and downstairs to check on the boy as you hid under blankets and inside your closet.

You did well enough when he was gone on assignments out of sheer necessity, because not even the rot in your heart would kill a fucking infant, as much as you contemplated it.

Other than Helen, there hadn’t been anyone else in the cabin for a year but him and you and the baby. No Sam, Pepper, Clint, Maria, Bruce, or Wanda. You supposed they didn’t know what to say to you, or healing from their own troubles—which you understood, but there were nights when you thought you might wither from loneliness.

_You gotta hold him._ Bucky had urged, _he needs you to pick him up. They need contact._

_You fucking hold him._

_I can’t hold him all the time. You’re his mother._

That was the feather that broke the camel’s back that night. The term _mother_, that terrible reminder of a role thrust upon you was breaking your head apart. You screamed _I don’t want to be! I never wanted to be!_ And Bucky’s brow furrowed so deeply you thought it might get stuck there. _Look at it! It looks just like him! The goddamn eyes and all! Why is it looking at me?!_

At your crying, the newly hushed baby began again, this time, as if renewed with a vengeance and you clapped your hands over your ears once more.

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and pulled the boy to him, flesh arm secured tightly over his back. With his other arm, he coaxed you closer, vibranium-black fingers silently curling. _Come on, darlin’, come here..._

He pulled you close, soothed the boy against his chest and lifted your chin towards him. _He’s just tired, darlin’-- he just wanted to be rocked back to sleep. Maybe he had a bad dream. I’ll guide you, okay?_

Bucky tugged your hand loose, lowered the baby down and placed him into your arms. He moved your elbows, bending them the right way so that the boy became nestled comfortably against your sternum, his head nuzzling your collarbone. Under your forearm, Bucky’s hand tapped and released until you slowly built the soft rocking rhythm he had become so good at.

That terrible _snk-snk-snk_ noise briefly halted, crackled once or twice more, and then quieted completely. The bundle sniffed and cooed in its rest, clenched its fingers around the blanket and trilled a noise. _What the fuck is that-- is it dying, Buck_?

Bucky laughed as you positioned the baby awkwardly into his bed. _He’s happy. He just wanted to be close to you, baby._

It was strange, like a feeling of déjà vu snatching you in the middle of a mundane task. The repetitive motions of being with Bucky, having him by your side for the last fifteen months suddenly struck something in your brain.

_Baby_. That word he had only reserved for the boy, he endeared you with. Suddenly all the _sweetheart’s, honey’s, darlin’s_ drawn out in that silly Brooklyn accent you used to tease him about... they all seemed perfect.

His hair in disarray, perfect. The beard he trimmed last Sunday grown out a little more, perfect. The crinkles around his eyes that you had grown to appreciate because it meant his aging with the time, too. Him, James Barnes, alive and well and in the world again, as he should be.

And he could have been doing anything to know the world, except he wasn’t; he was standing next to you in the kitchen, over a crib that should have been upstairs. A crib that you dragged down and cursed at, looking after a baby that wasn’t even his to begin with.

_Bucky_... _I … love you._

It was different than three months ago up in the loft with Helen as witness. A sweet laugh escaped him as he stroked your shoulder.

_I love you too, darlin’._

You leapt forward and crashed into his arms, locked your hands around his neck and pressed your mouth to his because you couldn’t think of another day without seeing him, without being with him, without him knowing how you felt about him.

_No, Bucky. I love you. I love you and I want you._

Then tongue and teeth and electric currents zipped through his mouth into yours. His hair slipped through your fingers and fell from the elastic band. His body stumbled backwards, taking both of you down onto the floor where you scrambled on top, locking your legs between his, desperate to feel more of him. There had been a heat that felt like it might melt your entire skin off if Bucky moved too far away.

It was grief hand in hand with love. Grief had brought this desperation and hunger.

You had spent the year broken apart and splintered by the grief of your former lover, bestowing a burden of life with his death in your heart, and Bucky had picked up the pieces and glued them together with his love.

When it ended and you lay a panting heap over his body, the shame came to collapse you, breaking you down into little bits. He shakily rubbed your back, asked if you were alright, if that had been okay, and if you wanted him to leave.

_Please don’t. Please stay. I’ll be better, I promise._

The two of you took the crib back and during the night you woke and held the baby, watched him against your chest in that pale cerulean onesie matching the flecks in his eyes, and sighed. _Sorry, buddy. It’s not your fault. _You changed him and fed him and rocked him back to sleep, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. The first one since he came into the world, but not the last. You’d be sure of it.

Bucky stood in the doorway, hair mussed from sleep, looking like he hadn’t at slept at all. His sweatpants hung low, shirt crinkled from the angled position wrapped around you. You had thought again that he was perfect.

_Sweetheart? You alright?_

A smile. Then another kiss. You inhaled the scent of him, lingered with the fabric softener of your sheets. Your hands had slipped up the back of his shirt, feeling the shape of him beneath slowly pressing against you. James Barnes stood motionless at first, but then he reached forward and let his fingers rest around your waist, linking over the small of your back.

_You okay?_

For the first time since Steve’s departure, you replied _yes_.

Three people sit in the living room, two on the couch, one on the sofa chair adjacent. James ambles around the living space picking up blocks and throwing them in glee. Your eyes find him repeatedly to keep yourself distracted and distant from the impending doom of this inevitable conversation.

Steve’s hands are clenched together, fingers woven in red and white flesh and knuckles as he grips himself like he’s keeping his emotions at bay with them. Bucky is to your side, leaned forward, inspecting Steve’s brow, holding back the words he’d like to say.

They had met in the driveway, spending a few minutes outside while you waited. It wasn’t like Bucky to speak for you, but you had requested it, knowing he would need a little privacy because you needed it too.

“I think... I should apologize.” Steve speaks into the air. “For—”

The grimace on Bucky’s face hurts, and you lean to pick up the boy circling around your feet and slapping his damp palm on your knee for attention. You prop him up in your lap and he sits quietly, gazing back and forth. “Daddy,” he calls, and both men turn to look at him.

It’s _fucked_.

Bucky clenches his jaw like he is in pain when Steve’s lips part on the cusp of spilling. James tips forward and you allow him to crawl into Bucky’s embrace, airing the truth.

“I think we can all see that he is loved.” Your voice trembles as you continue, because the trouble here doesn’t lie solely on a child and parental responsibility--- it also lies in three relationships, entwined over centuries and heartache. It lies in three choices: one to leave, and two to stay.

And now, the remainder has returned to stay, too.

Next to you, Bucky sits ramrod straight and stiff, unsure of how to move or behave now under Steve’s eye. James has matched his posture, strangely aware and gazing from Bucky to Steve, back to Bucky. He pats the scruff of his father’s chin, twists the soft chestnut hair in his fingers, tugs until Bucky’s head turns down to him.

Your lean back with a choked laugh.

“Can we make the best of this?” You say, “Because--- look at him.”

And they do. James laughs when you pinch his chin, eyelashes long and thick like Steve’s, folded down and resting on the apples of his cheeks. That golden halo covers him in a triumphant glow. Red lips like sweet cherries. A minute passes in silence before he pitches forward and whacks his mouth into Bucky’s shoulder, leaving a wet patch of drool when he pulls away.

His laughter rings throughout the room and ricochets off the furniture and walls, pinging off the mason jars before it lands in your ears like a bell.

When Bucky moves to wipe James’ chin, he does it again and clamps down onto Bucky’s hand, shrieking happily.

A loud sniff from Steve pulls your attention away. There are tears in his eyes as he places his forehead into his palm, leaning with his elbow on his knee. He begins to sob following a low chuckle.

“He’s--” Steve exhales, almost relieved, “He’s a lot like you, Buck.”

You laugh, too, reflexively leaning over to kiss Bucky’s cheek, taking his other side into your hand. Steve tenses in front of the affectionate demonstration, nostrils flaring and eyes blinking away the image, rolling up to find interest in the ceiling.

“I’m… glad. I’m glad that he’s loved by you.” Steve swallows thickly, eyes finding yours across the coffee table. That blue-green you see every day in your boy holds you gently, reminds you of the years passed between two. The stinging memories burn up your nose and you decisively blink them away.

Steve closes his eyes, letting you go. “And…” his voice quivers, “I’m glad it’s you, Buck. I’m glad it’s you who loves her.”

Bucky’s mouth twitches in a small smile of gratitude. “Yeah,” he says, “I do.” Then, he looks over at you, waiting with a smile.

In the driveway, two men had met each other again for the first time in three years, after meeting again for the first time in five years, and once more— before that—the first time in seventy.

They had stood, waiting in that heated summer air, dry and crisp, wafting scents of the sheets hung in the morning, the field and its meadow of wild blossoms, the pond and its surrounding damp earth. Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes spent the minutes in silence-- two moths seared to the core by a light they both craved.

“Don’t hurt her again.” Bucky had whispered, shoving his hands into his pockets. “That’s all I’m askin, Steve.”

Steve shook his head, “I won’t, Buck. I promise.”

James is down for the night, bear tucked faithfully under his arm. You’re ragged and wilting, completely liquid, exhausted from the conversation and the hurt, but, glad for it too. The vaccine has been injected, the fever sweat out, the only thing lingering is the bruising at the puncture site.

Bucky’s hair hangs loosely on his shoulders and you can’t help but smile at his sleepy midnight eyes and plum-lipped pout. Again, like before, like always, you‘re shocked sober at his splendor, even in boxers and an old shirt. He is starlight, and moonglow, a burning comet, a winter fire.

Embers inside your chest.

“Come here.” You whisper, eyes widening in wonder at the way he moves slowly across the bedroom. “Do you know that I love you, Bucky?”

His brow furrows, but he nods anyway, sitting down by your side.

“Baby, do you _know_?” Your hand finds his thigh, runs up the length of it and up his shirt, over his torso until your fingers splay over his heart. A light beat thrums beneath your palm.

“Bucky Barnes...” Your lips press to his shoulder, teeth grazing his collarbone. “I love you.” His heart picks up a faster pattern. “I love you because I choose to.”

He tilts his chin, presses his nose to your forehead and kisses your brow slightly. “Yeah, sweetheart.”

You can hear the pain, still, because he thinks that love is only passion and a flame. Instantaneous, uncontrolled, turbulent like rogue flares sparking across a polar night. He thinks it can only be what you and Steve had.

He thinks that a choice made is a choice that is late and second place.

You shake your head, rubbing your palm in straight lines up and down over the tattoo needle beating of his heart.

“You and I will never be like how it was with Steve…” A short breath escapes and wafts a breeze into his neck before you kiss his goosebumps away. “Bucky, a first love and a true love are two different things. I don’t want to be crazy; I want to be with _you_.”

You want to stop the tears, but they swell anyway, flooding your eyes until the levee struggles to hold them back and they break through in a torrent of sea salt. “God! You’re so stupid, James. You’re so fucking stupid.”

Bucky sighs and turns so that he’s facing you, chest-to-chest. His hands run over your skull, through your hair, and lock behind your neck, thumbs caressing the sensitive skin beneath your ears. At the sound of his name-- his boy’s name-- he smiles. It’s a lopsided and riven slant across his face, reaching all the way up into his eyes. “I’m sorry, baby. I… I know you love me.”

Leaning forward, you press the lightest of kisses to his lips. You want to give him the fire, let him burn like he thinks he needs to, sure. But you know he’ll see that every flame will eventually be extinguished because even the sun dies. You don’t want him to be the sun. You want him to be the night. The infinite and boundless space that will last your whole life and beyond.

But, you give him a little scorch anyway and snag his bottom lip between your teeth.

“Jesus!” He cries before pulling back to assess the damage. A single drop of blood smudges on his finger. “Darlin’ what the hell?”

You only respond with a slow smile, sweet and mysterious, the twinkling of a million stars alight in your eyes as you lean forward once more and press your mouth to his. Beneath his chin, you run a finger in small circles, placing your hand over his heart again, etching the beat of it into your own_. _

_Bucky. Bucky. Bucky. _

There is nothing else in your chest that could be better than his name.

It was been fifteen months and a day when you woke up again to an empty bed. It took a few minutes for you to adjust to the sound of silence in the loft and the melodic whispering breeze of the wind outside. You hadn’t heard that sound in a while, usually it was drowned out by the whine and cough of the baby.

Next to your head was the spare pillow you pulled from the hall closet, sunken in the middle, a tell-tale emblem of its usage from the previous night. The crumpled bedsheet was still warm. Bucky had only risen moments ago.

The door creaked open slowly, your guest opening it as quietly as possible so that he wouldn’t wake you. When his eyes found you half-propped up in bed, his shirt over your torso, he blushed so firmly the pink radiated down his chest.

The baby was gently cradled in his arm, freshly washed and changed, cooing a peaceful refrain.

You watched him pad softly over to where you sat and held out your hands to take the bundle. Like Bucky had shown you, you rocked the boy, placing a finger into his palm and caressing him fondly.

_You alright this mornin’?_

_Yeah, Buck, I am._

A furtive glance was exchanged. Then, a slow crawling of his fingers toward your knee and when his warm palm made contact with your soft skin, your eyes slipped shut and you had imagined all your days next to him.

Mornings with hot coffee and bare feet. Afternoons where you would show him that field you loved, lay him down and kiss him, discover all the things about him he would allow you to know. Evenings under blankets, blooming a love new and true, a love between you and Bucky Barnes.

_Bucky. Bucky. Bucky._

_What’re you thinkin’ bout? _He asked, attentive to the way your chest rose and fell with each quivering breath.

_I think I know what his name is._

He had laughed then, put that hand on your knee over his eyes and laughed mirthfully. _Jesus, sweetheart, fifteen months and --- alright, what is it? Better late than never. Poor fuckin’ thing. _

And because it was so sweet coming from his mouth, that sound you never wanted to stop hearing, you leaned over and nuzzled your nose into his neck, pulling another one from him.

It was fifteen months and a day when you looked up into Bucky’s joyful blue eyes and then down to the blue of your son’s, too. They found each other’s gaze, blinking languidly in the warmth of the morning.

_James_, you whispered. _I’ll name him James._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your love! This is ... so far, my favorite series I've ever written. I'm so glad to have done it. I hope you liked it as much as I did!!


End file.
